


if i'm crazy (that's what you made me)

by activatingAggro (pigeonfancier)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caste Impersonation, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, LARPing, Taxidermy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 19:23:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16624976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonfancier/pseuds/activatingAggro
Summary: “Ah! I’m not Pheres today.” You roll back your shoulders, bouncing onto the arches of your toes. You’re so tall with these heels on: for all that it’s proving a bit hazardous to stay upright, you wouldn’t trade them for the world, when you can actually peer down your nose and over the rim of your glasses at your matesprit. “My name is Infern Diabla. It means the infernal devil, in far-off regions. But, ah, today, people will be calling me by my adult title -”You pause. You have to sell the moment right, you think, if you want her to really appreciate your character. So you take a deep breath, cock your head ever-so-slightly to the side, and then grin at her, so the light catches just so on your fake fangs as you lean in. “My adult title,” you declare, reaching up to tap the skin under your ear - and the fake-fins flare in response: “- is the Marquise Bloodfin!”Kit blinks at you.“Oh,” she says, faint, “wow.”Pheres tries to impress Meukit with a grand gesture.





	if i'm crazy (that's what you made me)

Sipara had watched your Snapchat three times over before she’d mustered up the strength for a reply

”Fuchsia’s can’t be _vampires,”_  she’d spluttered, because your former moirail has no faith in _anything,_  least of all you. “That’s, like - that’s not how it works, dude!”

She’d had nothing to say when you’d sent her a link to vampire squids, but of _course_  she hadn’t.

* * *

Kit, as it turns out, is a great deal more amendable to the idea.

* * *

It’s just a matter of her getting time off. But as soon as she does, the fourth weekend of the latter half of the dry season, you’re waiting for her at the hotel room, already dressed and prepared for the evening.

When she knocks on the door, you half-fall in your rush to get to it.

Kit’s lovely. She’s _always_  lovely, with her sky-bright eyes and the glow of her cheeks, but she’s come dressed for the party already. The two of you had spent ages working on her part of her costume, as soon as she said that she might play the knight to your heiress, but there’s nothing to compare to seeing it in person. It’s so _bright._

It’s so _her,_ because what is she, if not a knight in shining armour?

“Pheres!” she says, pleased, and then her eyebrows shoot up as she takes in your outfit. “Oh. _Oh._  Wow. You really went all out, didn’t you?”

You beam at her. “I did! Don’t you think it’s _lovely?_  Ah - do you think it’s lovely? If it’s a little much, of course -” Sweeps of practice have made you an expert at talking around the false fangs in your mouth. But excitement catches your tongue on them all the same, and you have to pause, slow down. “If it’s a little much,” you say, “I can take some of it off -”

“No, no! It’s.. wow, it’s great.” She reaches up to brush a strand of hair away from your face, tilting her head to the side as her fangs bite into her lip. “It’s really cute,” she assures you. “Should I be calling you, um, heir Dysseu, now, though? While we’re at the event..?”

“Ah! I’m not Pheres today.” You roll back your shoulders, bouncing onto the arches of your toes. You’re so _tall_  with these heels on: for all that it’s proving a bit hazardous to stay upright, you wouldn’t trade them for the world, when you can actually peer down your nose and over the rim of your glasses at your matesprit. “My name is Infern _Diabla._ It means the infernal devil, in _far-off regions._ But, ah, today, people will be calling me by my adult title -”

You pause. You have to sell the moment right, you think, if you want her to really appreciate your character. So you take a deep breath, cock your head ever-so-slightly to the side, and then grin at her, so the light catches just so on your fake fangs as you lean in. “My adult title,” you declare, reaching up to tap the skin under your ear - and the fake-fins flare in response: “- is the Marquise Bloodfin!”

Kit blinks at you.

“Oh,” she says, faint, “ _wow.”_

* * *

The party is _lovely._  Stevia’s using one of her warehouses for it, and everything’s taking place on the interior, far away from any roving policedrone’s or curious eyes. She’s dressed herself up as the Grand Highblood again for tonight’s performance, and she’s recruited even Caduse’s help in making the entire place look like the outdoors.

With the green and blue lights shining from the rafters, it looks like the lot of you are out on the countryside, instead of flouncing about with fake swords and contacts on the indoors.

“I didn’t even realise you could _fit_  this many plants in one places,” Kit murmurs to you, amused, when a fern brushes her face for the third time. “Maybe I should take a picture for Gliese. Um. Is she really indigo –?”

“Only if I’m _fuchsia,”_  you whisper back, and she laughs, looping her arm in through yours.

“I don’t know. You make a pretty good heiress..”

The party’s lovely! And when you bury your shoes in a fern so you can go dance, no one even bothers to _steal_ them.

A few hours in, you leave Kit on the dancefloor, chatting away to some girl who’s claiming cerulean, but you suspect is really yellow. (The horns are always a dead giveaway. Whoever has diomedes syndrome to the _fourth_  pair, except for yellows?) She barely looks up when you do, and it’s for the best, really.

You’ve got things to do, and trolls to find.

Stevia’s at the banquet table, sorting through the baked goods. When you clear your throat, she doesn’t turn around. Still, you give her a full minute before you flounce over to her. She’s arranging things on the table. Usually, she’s too tall for you to peer over her shoulder! But, like this, you can see –

“My _spider cookies!”_ you cry. She’s shoved them all the way to the back, where hardly anyone can see them. “What’re you donig? I put them up front –”

“Are those supposed to be spiders? I thought they were road-kill.”

“They’re _spiders!_ They’ve got legs. Don’t hide those away, they took _hours -_ ” You reach forward to grab the tray, but she slaps your hands away. “Oh!” The hiss is reflexive, but the way Stevia shifts, her chin pulling down, is entirely new. She frowns at you, but it’s not just her usual disapproval.

It’s.. wariness.

You blink at her, then retreat. And moving back allows for the moment to pass, you think: she relaxes, her horns lifting up out of that defensive bow, and  “Ah,” you say. “Ah. Never mind. My apologies.”

She sniffs. “What for?” But there’s something about the look in her eye that discourages you from continuing, so you pause, ducking your horns apologetically instead.

“That was rude of me,” you murmur. “I just wanted to know, ah - well! The cookies don’t matter. Not at all.” You take a step forward, slow, and when she doesn’t move away, you lean down, until your curls are brushing her shoulder and your mouth is close to her ear. “Are you still.. everything’s still set up, isn’t it? For Kit and I?”

“Are you sure,” she says, slowly, “that you want to do this? Really? _Really,_  Dysseu?”

“I just spent _two hundred caegars_ buying and stuffing those doves,” you whisper back, watching the crowd. When Kit looks your way, you plaster on a smile, dimpling at her until she looks away. And when Stevia makes a disapproving sound..

You shouldn’t hiss. You shouldn’t! Oh, you’re being a _prat,_ and these fins just are bringing the worst out of you, today! And Stevia must agree, because she pulls back, and her fingers twitch down towards her club.

You hunch your shoulders, folding your arms, trying to look as small as possible.

“Right.” She’s just _looking_ at you right now,  “Okay. If you’re _sure._  When you lift your hand, I drop the.. everything.”

“She’s going to find it _dreadfully_  romantic,” you grumble. “You’ll see. You’ll _all_ see.”

* * *

The party is just winding down when you manage to convince Kit to back off to one of the smaller corners.

“Well,” she says, amused, “this’s been, um. Pretty fun. And I like seeing what you do when you’re not just around me. And I liked your friends a lot. They all seem really nice!”

“Oh! Good! They liked you, too.” Stevia had done no such thing. Stevia’s watching the both of you and _judging,_ undoubtedly, while she waits for her moment, but - you don’t care. Isn’t that the best thing about being with Kit? You can’t bring yourself to care about any of this, not when she’s right in front of you, looking like she’s having a perfectly lovely night.

So you lift your chin and take a deep breath. “I’m glad you’re here,” you say, earnest. “I didn’t think you’d want to come, really - I mean, ah, _no one_  does, and I know it’s all a little - silly -”

“Only a little silly. But it’s fun,” she says, giving your hand a squeeze, and you grin at her reflexively. You wish you could pin your ears back, or - or - _smile_  the way she does, so that it floods her entire face. You wish you were even half as expressive, every time she looks at you like this, like you’re the only thing in the room that she’d ever want to see.

You can’t. You aren’t _built_  for it, if you’re perfectly honest, for honesty, or expressiveness, or anything else - but that’s fine, because that’s why you set this entire thing up.

“As long as it’s only a little silly.” You toss your head, pushing your curls back over your shoulder, then clear your throat. “Ah, Kit - I just wanted to say - you’ve been lovely! You are _positively_  lovely. The best person I know, I think, more than..” Can you say Hadean, or Sipara? Is that tasteless? They’re your _quadrants._  But she’s always been kinder than the either of them, for all that she’s flush. And it might’ve been her job, but.. “More than anyone else,” you settle on. “And I wanted to show you it! Because, ah, you _should_  be shown it.”

Kit laughs, her brows knitting. She’s got a hand up to her mouth, even as her ears drop to drag across her shoulders. For a moment, your heart drops. But - no, she’s smiling, the edge of her mouth curled just enough to squeeze her eyes. “You _have_  shown it,” she insists, soft but firm. “You’re wearing my colour. I think that’s - um - pretty big.”

“That’s just a _colour,”_  you object. “I wanted to do something better. Give you _proof_  of it. And so..” You lift your hand. Your historical society ring gleams on it, bright as a ruby in the night, as you slide it off your finger. Kit’s watching you, still puzzled, as you lift her hand..

.. but then she coughs when you try to slide it onto her finger, but it doesn’t quite fit.

Somehow, you hadn’t planned for that.

“Ah.” You cough, lifting your hand when she reaches out to help. “Give me a moment,” you assure her. “I have this under control!” But then something creaks above you, and you remember Stevia.

Too late, you drop your hand, but the ceiling’s already pulling back. Kit jerks, her head tilting up as the light flicks out, and the smaller, more delicate spotlights turn on. Glitter wafts down from the ceiling in streams, shining blue in the darkness. It’s gorgeous.

And then the doves drop, their bodies angled in exactly the way you’d formed them. Their wings arch majestically like they’ve been caught mid-flight. Their feet are curled in, their feathers delicately dyed in a way that you’d spent hours ensuring would look lovely in the soft blue light. It’s as if they’re taking flight as they swing on their strings.

It’d be very romantic, if one didn’t drop directly to crash into Kit’s head.

You shriek, hands flying to your mouth, and Kit yelps to match as she flails to get it free. Had you forgotten to cut the string? _Evidently._  She knocks it free, finally, but when she snatches hold of it, taking in what she has in her hands, her eyes widen.

“Um,” she says, staring at it, and then peering up at you. “Uh, Pheres - is this a dove?”

Oh.

Oh _no._

_“It was supposed to be romantic!”_ you wail, hand still clasped over your mouth. Somewhere, you’re certain, Stevia’s probably howling. There’s glitter in Kit’s hair and across her face, and a dead dove in her arms, and she’s not even looking up at the gorgeous display above her. No, she’s staring at you, her face peculiar and wan in the light.

“I thought it was - oh! Oh, no, you don’t like it -”

You just hit your matesprit. You just hit your matesprit in the head with a _dead dove,_ and there’s curls hanging forward in her face where it’d knocked them free of the pins, and your face is _burning._  But that’s nothing compared to the way her face is twitching. With a flash of horror, you realise that her eyes are filling with blue. Worse yet still, she’s _shaking._ You whine, sinking back onto your heels. “Oh, _Kit –”_

She opens her mouth, but what comes out isn’t a sob, but a strangled laugh instead.

In a moment, she’s stepped into your space, and she’s burying her face into your chest, her eyelashes brushing your collarbone as she shakes. Her laughter’s pouring out of her in hitches and gasps, like it’s clawing its way out: she’s laughing like she might _die,_ the dead dove still clutched between you, and for all that your hands are hovering above her shoulders, finally you bring yourself to pat her back instead. Your face is burning.

Your entire _body_  is burning, like shame is something that can just pour through your veins.

“I’m sorry,” you tell her, low. “Oh, no, this was - I thought - it seemed like such a good _idea_ at the time, but I shouldn’t have - I should’ve thought it through -”

She shakes her head viciously againsnt you, taking in a breath, but whatever she’s going to say is muffled against you. Perhaps she realises that, because she pulls back enough to kiss your chest, then your collar, and then your cheek. Each one’s emphasized, soft but firm, for all that her voice’s still quavering: “- no!”

“No, this was -” She’s trying, but she can’t choke back the laugh as she pulls away entirely. There’s blue streaks down her cheek, smudging her makeup, but she reaches up to smooth them away like she doesn’t even mind. “That was lovely efforts,” she finally says. “And, um, I appreciated it! A lot. Like.. wow. But maybe next time..”

She holds out the bird. “.. maybe they could be alive?”

At your expression, she starts laughing again.


End file.
